


you break the fall

by ghoulittle



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Force Unleashed - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jango Fett Open Seasons (Comics), The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alderaanian Culture (Star Wars), Communication Failure, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Hair Braiding, Keldabe Kiss, Minor Injuries, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pre-Relationship, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28316316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoulittle/pseuds/ghoulittle
Summary: He’s dead quiet for a moment, head tilting a degree at a time towards his right shoulder in a way she usually reads as his ‘are you kriffing kidding me’ face. Not a great sign; she resists the urge to fidget about it, just forcing herself to meet his gaze through the visor. “You do. You heard him. Before the explosion. You have my name.” “No.” Cara repeats, a flicker of annoyance growing in her now, because goddess, what is even the point of this conversation? “I turn my ears off when Imps start gloating. You should try it sometime.” “...you think it’sforbidden.” Din says, something like disbelief blatant in his voice; she doesn’t even try to keep herself from snorting at him for it. Loudly. “Buddy. You don’t even have a work name, you’re just ‘the Mandalorian’ on Greef’s roster. Are you really trying to tell me itisn’t?”(star wars intimacy prompts, various pairings and settings.)
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cara Dune, Jango Fett/Shmi Skywalker, Juno Eclipse/Galen Marek
Comments: 14
Kudos: 91





	1. (cara/din) cool girl

**Author's Note:**

> Cara Dune/Din Djarin, "nicknames". Set in a vague AU somewhere after season one. The chickens thing is a reference to the Rebel Alliance SpecOps 'chicken alarm system': one chicken is any sizable enemy operation, five chickens is a single Star Destroyer, and eight chickens is an entire Imperial fleet arriving.

This isn’t a luxury Cara gets as often as she would like— _him_ , that is, relaxed enough to just tangle up with her in her makeshift bunk for hours at a time when nothing else needs doing for the moment. He’s even shed his boots and gloves and all but his smallest vibroblade, armor peeled off below the neck so she can get them settled without any _beskar_ edges biting into her softer spots. (All laid down within easy reach, though. Always within reach.) For _him_ , he may as well be in pajamas, may as well be naked even though all she can see is his hands and neck and a sliver of belly where his shirts rode up, and Cara intends to drag every second of it out that she can.

Partly just because she enjoys it, yeah, but partly because it’s _good for him_. He doesn’t get chances to relax often enough. But here, when they’ve been in hyperspace for twelve hours and will be for twenty-four more, when the kid is unscratched and snoozing away happily in his hammock, when not a single damn hunter or stormtrooper or _anything_ can reach them... they can both relax. 

They’ve been laying quietly for at least three hours by her clock, only interrupted by the occasional need for stretching or scratching, when she starts hearing the ‘fresher calling her name and swears under her breath; it feels like they’d only _just_ managed to get settled without the raised bit on the back of his helmet digging into her. “What?” Din says, quiet and muzzy with almost-sleep— the sound sends a longing through her that’s entirely stupid when she’s already holding him. “Break.” Cara sighs, reluctantly peeling away from him. “Move over, Mando. I need a minute.” It takes him a second, but he does, shifting away with a breath she almost call a sigh. Almost. She rubs over her eyes once and gets to her feet, hissing at how cold the cargo hold’s floors are on bare soles as she makes a line for the bathroom. 

“Cara.” she hears before she passes the doorframe, and she could almost groan at how _awake_ he sounds again now— if she loses three hours of progress because she had to _pee_ , she’s never drinking anything again. She’ll shrivel up like a dried jogan and it’ll be entirely worth it. “What’s up?” she checks with her best neutral voice, taking the time to push some hair out of her face where it slipped from her braid; from where he’d been touching it, probably, but she doesn’t mind re-doing it. “Why—” He stops and clears his throat a little before going again. Still sounds damnably awake. “Why don’t you use my name? When we’re alone.” Cara squints at the wall, resisting the urge to turn around and ask him what he thinks he’s playing at.

He’s not a ‘trick question’ kind of guy— she wouldn’t _be_ here if he was, she hates that garbage— but no matter what angle she tries to come at this from, she can’t think of an answer that he wouldn’t already know. And they’re all just rephrasings of the _same_ answer, anyway; the only possible answer. She lets her eyes roll up hard for a second before she turns back to him, leaning herself against the inside of the doorframe. “Can’t use what I don’t have.” Cara tells him, because he’s going to make her say it, apparently. If she didn’t know him better, she’d figure this to be some kind of test. But he’s not _that_ kind of guy, either.

He’s dead quiet for a moment, head tilting a degree at a time towards his right shoulder in a way she usually reads as his ‘are you kriffing kidding me’ face. Not a great sign; she resists the urge to fidget about it, just forcing herself to meet his gaze through the visor. “You do. You heard him. Before the explosion. You _have_ it.” “No.” Cara repeats, a flicker of annoyance growing in her now, because _goddess_ , what is even the _point_ of this conversation? “I turn my ears off when Imps start gloating. You should try it sometime.” “...you think it’s _forbidden_.” Din says, something like disbelief blatant in his voice; she doesn’t even try to keep herself from snorting at him for it. Loudly. “Buddy. You don’t even have a _work name_ , you’re just ‘the Mandalorian’ on Greef’s roster. Are you really trying to tell me it _isn’t_?”

“That’s—” He stops again, and she has the distinct feeling he’s grinding his teeth under there. It’s an act she considers herself very talented at producing in people. Cara pops her lips a few times into the silence, waiting. “That’s for... safety. It’s not against the creed for someone to know my name. Or speak it.” he says. “Oh.” is all she has for that at first, because her brain has run directly into a ditch and is having trouble spinning enough mud to get back out of it. This... could save her a lot of hassle, Cara thinks, if he’s saying what she thinks he is. Which isn’t even remotely the important part, she’s aware, thank you, but thinking of it in those terms makes her able to _keep talking_ , which _is_ important; if she just froze up right now like she _wants_ to, she’s not sure he’d bring this up again. “...okay. When nobody can hear me, right?” Cara manages. 

It’s still hard to tell even without most of his plating, but she swears she sees him relax just a _little_. Not like he was an hour ago, not like he was five minutes ago, but... it’s something. “Right.” he confirms, nodding a bit. “Okay.” she says again, still in that ditch even as her brain files away new rules. “So you not having a work name is, what, so you don’t get your identity stolen?” There’s just a long enough pause for her to think, ah, she’s overcompensated and stepped in it _again_ , before he speaks. “It would be... dishonest. For me.” "...you have a disruptor rifle.” Cara reminds him. “Yes.” “You have a _disruptor rifle_ , and you think using an _alias_ is _too close to lying_?” she croaks before she can’t hold back the laughter anymore, grabbing for the doorframe with one scrabbling hand as her other jerks in the air. “You— _Mando_!” “You _used_ that rifle.” Din points out, but he doesn’t sound offended enough for her to do anything except keep wheezing. 

“And I’ve had aliases! How do you think I wasn’t arrested? You... are five chickens in a one chicken bag. Maybe even eight.” she tells him when she can breathe again, straightening herself back up and wincing a bit at the way her stomach aches now. “You’re still not making sense.” “I’ll explain in a minute, I really do need the fresher. Are we done with this conversation for now, Djarin?” He lets out that little almost-a-sigh again. “Yeah.” “Good.” Cara chirps as she finally turns to go, letting the shadow hide her grin when he finally registers the name and has a full-body twitch in her peripheral. 

Yeah, this should save some hassle, she thinks. And maybe be fun to boot.


	2. (galen/juno) sharp shock to your soft side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galen Marek/Juno Eclipse, "patching up a wound". Set in TFU, very shortly after Kazdan Paratus and before Shaak Ti. A little darker this time, I guess, but I wouldn't call it angsty.

The feeling of victory isn’t sitting with him the way it should. He has _won_ , has proved the superiority of the darkness over light yet again, has served his master well— he should feel pleased. He should feel _strong_. Yet he doesn’t feel much of anything at the moment, save the regular pierce-and-pull of a needle where his pilot sews together the newest slice between his shoulderblades; a parting gift from one of the Jedi’s better automatons before he turned it to scattered scrapmetal. 

Even the _look_ she’d given him when he handed her the cauterizer first hadn’t helped to spark any useful anger in him, though she’d quickly covered it with a politer veneer. As if giving her the fastest tool to give her more time for her own duties was somehow the wrong thing to do. _Why_ she’d offered to do this instead of PROXY if she was just going to be strange about it is another one of the little mysteries about her behavior he doesn’t have time to unravel at the moment. Later, perhaps, once the Emperor has been deposed and the galaxy finally has the leader it deserves. Provided she... stays. Provided she isn’t removed for some failing. She won’t be, the apprentice tells himself. She’s competent, professional— too curious at times, perhaps, but that can be easily enough discouraged. She’s sensible, she’ll understand some things she just doesn’t _need_ to know. 

The last pilot was competent and professional and sensible, too. The thought makes him stiffen despite himself, and behind him Juno— _Captain Eclipse_ — pauses. “Four more, I believe.” she says. It’s supposed to be relaxing, he thinks; he breathes out and forces his body to go loose again. “However many it takes.” It’s not as if it really hurts that much, after all. Hurts less than the cauterizer, especially with deft human fingers drawing the needle through; PROXY’s always done his best to help when there are wounds he can’t reach well, but his manipulators were designed for holding blades and creating repulsor blasts, not medical work. 

Even if she’s acting strangely about some parts of it, he supposes he should appreciate that she’s bothering. It decidedly isn’t part of her actual responsibilities; he hadn’t even assumed her to be _capable_ of it until she saw the blood on the back of his cloak and made an immediate line for the medical supplies. “Did they teach you this at the academy?” “Yes. Elective course on the basics.” She took a lot of those, he’d bet. If he had anything to bet with on him at the moment. He says as much, and she snorts, breath faint against the nape of his neck. “I suppose.” She’s not his most talkative pilot—normally a trait he can appreciate—but this is... _different_ , somehow; he frowns, reaches out with his other sense. She’s... distressed, under the veneer of calm. He’s not skilled enough ( _yet_ , he tells himself, _yet_ ) to immediately pick out distinct emotions, but the overall feeling is undeniable.

“Are you really _that_ attached to archaic medical methods?” he asks, a touch disbelieving. “What?” Something _spikes_ in her before vanishing. Or, no, being _hidden_. “No, of course not. It’s unrelated.” He frowns again. She’s never had much difficulty sharing opinions before. Usually when he needs to be concentrating on something else, it feels like. “Speak your mind.” the apprentice says, lacing a thread of command into the words. There is a pause, and for a second he expects her to decline, until— “...I’m aware the Jedi were traitors. Dangerous ones.” Juno begins, and he makes a small noise of agreement. “Who knows how many people that man on Nar Shaddaa would have killed if he hadn’t been stopped. But I don’t see what danger _that_ one was to the galaxy, out here. Doing nothing but... being mad.” 

The apprentice closes his eyes and very carefully does not stiffen. “You can’t _feel_ the things they do.” he reminds her. “The way they use the Force, the way they change things around them... letting them live makes the entire galaxy poorer for it. And I don’t need to remind you they’re _traitors_ , Captain.” “...of course. One more.” she says after another pause, tone glacial; he doesn’t allow himself to wince. She may not like it, but it’s necessary. With time, she may even thank him one day for pulling her back from doubt— she’s _better_ than that kind of weakness. He hears her trim the suture more than he feels it after one more pulling, and the clatter of the needle into a tray as she gets up to her feet. “Juno.” he blurts, turning his head just enough to see her. “Don’t repeat that anywhere off this ship.” “...of course.” she repeats, still crisp. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She’s out of the room before he lets himself sigh with relief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently (probably forever) taking [prompts](http://janeghoulittle.tumblr.com/tagged/prompts) over [here](http://janeghoulittle.tumblr.com/ask)! ❤


	3. (shmi/jango) blood and muscle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shmi Skywalker/Jango Fett, "touching foreheads". Very very _very_ heavily inspired by the delightful [The House Built On Fresh Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23854915); I just couldn’t figure out how to make the ‘inspired by (work)’ thing function for only a single chapter instead of the entire work, or else I would have used it.

Shmi has checked the moisture level of her seedlings eight times in the span of a few hours by the time the call comes in; she flips the comms switch immediately. “We’re headed back. No pursuit, but be ready for takeoff.” It’s a voice she knows well by now. “Copy.” she confirms, and the line goes dead. It’s only ten more minutes before the ship’s sensors ping aloud, telling her there’s people approaching— Shmi scrambles out of her chair and through the halls until she’s half-bolting down the ramp onto the landing pad.

It’s Zam, she sees. Alone. Smiling, covered in mismatched jewels and silky cloth wrapped haphazardly around her leather armor, but _alone_. “ _Zam_ —” Shmi blurts, taking a step forward before she can help it. She knew exactly how to handle this once, no one hasn’t woken up to find someone resold or struck down in a master’s fit of temper, but they’re supposed to be _free now_ — “Relax, gearhead. Don’t worry. He’s just shaking the dust off.” Zam says, jerking her thumb up at the sky before striding past her and up the ramp. “What?” she asks, but the sometimes-woman is already gone, and something in Shmi bucks at the idea of following her to ask again. Of going back into the ship by herself.

Galidraan is part of only a singular star system, and so Shmi doesn’t need to do more than shade her eyes with her hand to look up into the sky. There’s nothing there. No ‘borrowed’ ship, no shuttle, no Jango. Nothing but clouds. She squints harder, as if that will somehow make him at the controls of something appear—a Torranix A-23 comes to mind, she’s been wanting to see the coil housings from one in person—and still sees nothing but blue and white. How in the world is he going to shake the (figurative, she assumes) dust from his armor by flying something? He’s done that plenty without it.

She trusts Zam to mean it when she says not to worry, but Shmi still stares until it hurts a little behind her eyes. And sees a tiny, dark speck against a cloud. The speck is coasting downwards, getting larger and larger until she realizes it’s humanoid. A man, in fact, covered head to toe in more silver than a Nubian yacht— _Jango_ , Shmi realizes, because who else could it be? He’d explained one late night how their armor was often more than just plating, all the sensors and tools and weapons that could be fit in by clever smiths; flamethrowers, shield generators, retracting blades, garotte cords. Then he had to go on a tangent explaining what a garrote was after she raised her hand. She supposes that’s why he never got to ‘flying’.

The rocket is suprisingly quiet when Jango touches down; she should greet him, she knows, congratulate him, but all she can bring herself to do is stare. If _this_ is typical of his people, if they all look like this when they go to war, Shmi thinks... the effect she’s seen just the _word_ ‘Mandalorian’ have makes more sense now. She’s not as brave as he claims her to be, but she is at least brave enough to step forward. “Shmi.” he says. The helmet doesn’t disguise his voice, she finds, and she’s grateful to it for that. “I’m happy for you.” Shmi tells him, meaning it; even without seeing his face, he looks calm, confident, _whole_. “I know. ...you’re staring. You thought it would be different?” “Yes.” she admits. She hadn’t put any real thought to the shape, but...

“You said it was green.” When he mentioned it, she had thought that to be a strange color for a soldier, until she reminded herself it likely wouldn’t mean the same to him as to her. “He stripped the paint.” Jango says, sounding harder than he has in months now, and Shmi closes her eyes. Normally she wouldn’t think of paint on metal as all that much, but... it was _his_. “I’m sorry.” she tells him, as it’s all she can, and reaches to lay her hand on his wrist. The piece there—she can’t remember the name at the moment—feels cool against her callouses. “You killed him?”

Shmi can't find much distaste in her for the possibility. He hadn’t been Jango’s _depur_ , persay, but he’d still sold him. Had kept what may as well be part of him as a prize for years, and would have kept it forever if he could. The galaxy has too much killing in it, she thinks sometimes, but it also has too many masters. One less will draw no tears from her. “I will if his information is bad.” Jango answers, still hard, before he turns his hand to loop his fingers around her arm. “...come here. Like this.” His free hand goes to the back of her neck, pulling with gentle weight until she bends down enough to close the hand’s span of height between them and touch her head to his. 

It’s a new feeling, but a nice one, and Shmi holds it until she hears the rocket sputter and Jango jerks himself away, cursing; the sight of sparks makes her wince, even if she’s sure he won’t feel any of them through his layers. “Someone hit it?” She doesn’t see any carbon scoring, just shine, but she can only see a sliver from this angle anyway. “No. The bastard just never polished the _inside_.” he spits, reaching until it detaches from his back and he’s holding it in front of him with one hand and opening a panel with another.

It’s not _armor_ , exactly, but Shmi still hesitates before reaching her own hands out to help support it— it’s not armor, but if the governor thought it was significant enough to keep at all... His head tilts a little, sunlight catching on the side, and then he sighs so quietly she barely hears it. “Shm’ika. You can hold any of it.” “Right.” she says, feeling the heat on the back of her neck at such a slip as she takes it into her hands. She’s never held a jetpack before, but she’s seen the Mitrinomon stamp on enough steering vanes to recognize the company sigil. She leans in, squinting into the space the removed panel has exposed, and immediately blanches. He’d attached that to his _back_? He’d been hundreds of feet in the air with this between him and the ground?

“Did he just— polish the shell and ignore _everything_ in it?” Shmi asks instead of letting herself think about that too much, horror leaking into her voice; five more years in this condition and it might have _ignited_ when some poor soul went to dust it. She can only imagine what would happen to the servant that ‘damaged’ the prize of Jango Fett’s _beskar’gam_. “He’s not _bright_.” Jango snorts, taking it back to tuck it under his arm. “Come on. I’ll show you how to replace the wiring without taking out the targeting system.”

He keeps his hand on the small of her back even after they’re back in the ship, and Shmi feels entirely, achingly _whole_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * _depur_ : master, owner. From Fialleril's brilliant Amatakka (secret Tatooine slave language) conlang. 
>   * _Shm'ika_ : 'ika' as a suffix; added to a name to indicate a childhood or very personal nickname. Mando'a.
>   * _beskar'gam_ : Mandalorian armor. Mando'a. 
>   * Currently (probably forever) taking [prompts](http://janeghoulittle.tumblr.com/tagged/prompts) over [here](http://janeghoulittle.tumblr.com/ask)! ❤
> 



	4. (cara/din) are you bored yet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cara Dune/Din Djarin, "playing with hair". Set somewhere after season two. The significance of Alderaanian braids and the Rhindon sword is canon, but the Alderaanian color significance is only headcanon.
> 
> Sorry for any update confusion; I didn’t realize publishing a chapter from a draft means it only shows as being published when the chapter was first saved, so I had to delete and post again... ah well.

Like a lot of his questions, it comes in a cockpit and when she’s not prepared to answer anything.

“What does it mean?” “What?” Cara asks, distracted with how she’s almost to the end of this plait; it’s taken twice as long as usual with both her smallest fingers splinted. “Your braids.” Din clarifies. _Ah._ None of your business, she does not say. “What makes you think they mean something?” she asks instead, turning her head a little to check the reflection and biting back a curse when she sees how the ribbon is drooping away limply from her scalp. Not tied close enough to the root; time to start over. She all but rips it out, shaking her hair back out before gritting her teeth at the dull ache of her hand and going again. “It’s the only part you spend time on.” Din says, flicking his hand at her clothes in her peripheral.

Oh, that would _definitely_ be a criticism from somebody else. But she doesn’t think it’s _praise_ , either; it’s just… observation, no judgement attached one way or the other because he doesn’t care enough to do so. The ‘none of my business if it isn’t giving me money or pointing a blaster at me’ approach is something she thinks more people in the galaxy could try. “I don’t know about that. I spend a lot of time making sure my chest looks good.” Cara lies; he laughs, quiet but unmistakable. “Sure.” Din says, humoring, before shifting in his chair a little towards her. She thinks she’s getting good at feeling when he’s looking at her by now. “I’m asking to know if I can help.”

Cara turns enough to squint into his face. “ _You_ know how to braid hair.” she says, not trying to hide her disbelief. She’s only seen a few of his kind, but none of them had hair coming out from under their helmets, and she has a hard time imagining them braiding their own hair for an audience of no one. (Her audience may be dead, but that’s still more than no one.) Din shrugs. “I can braid cord. How different could it be?” “Pretty different.” Cara snorts before letting the attempted plait go and dropping the ribbon into her lap. “Fine. They’re mourning braids.” she tells him. “I’m sure you can guess where they’re from.” There’s a long moment of silence, but the angle of his visor doesn’t change. “…I didn’t mean to—” “Don’t.” she interrupts. “I asked you a lot of questions about your stuff, and you answered all of them. I’m just… cranky. Fingers are sore with bumping into each other.”

That’s not precisely why she’s cranky, but she doesn’t feel like bringing up the humiliation of having her fingers broken by some cheap merc again. “I can help.” Din repeats. There’s something _mean_ on her tongue, about how, yeah, he sure seems to _help_ things whenever he breezes through and leaves ash and bodies behind him; Cara swallows it down. “It’s not something strangers do for each other.” she informs him. Warns, maybe. “I didn’t think we were strangers.” He sounds calm, steady— it eases the tension in her own stomach. “…okay.” she agrees after a second, resisting the urge to swallow. “Take your best shot. Let’s see if you can turn my head into a cord snare.” “It’s already a cord snare.” Din mutters, but he gets to his feet and crosses the few feet to stand by her side anyway.

She takes his gloves when he strips them off, trading them for the ribbon from her lap. Grips tight with her unsplinted fingers, because the feeling of leather keeps her from thinking too much about the feeling of his fingers undoing her half-finished braid again. “The holos of your princess on the news— she doesn’t have these strings.” he says after a moment. “Her braids are special.” Cara tells, feeling suddenly, strangely defensive of the woman even when there’s still no judgement in his voice. “Whoever the monarch is wears them instead of a crown.” Besides, she’s a senator again now; she can’t _afford_ to fly any colors she wants like Cara can. Outer Rim criminals like Mando don’t know the meanings, but Core criminals like the princess must have to sit with all the time would. …she can fix that, Cara realizes, and is so overcome by the urge to do so that she almost kicks herself. _Why_? What good is it going to do him besides just making her easier to read? Arguably do _her_ the opposite of good?

But, fuck, she _wants_ to suddenly. The words sit in her throat, aching and hot. “The blue’s for water.” Cara says before she can sit on it too long. “The yellow’s for war.” His hands go still for a few seconds, and she swears she feels his gaze on her temple like a weight. “Water.” Din echoes as she feels him start working again. Prompting, she thinks. “Yeah. It’s— it was important.” If she really got into _why_ , they’d be here all day, Cara knows; the difference between still lakes and flowing rivers, the repository, the parting. He can just know it was important for now. “And war?” There’s the faintest tinge of… _something_ in his voice, something she can’t nail down. Doubt, maybe. She knows most worlds use red or black for war; yellow’s supposed to be cheery sunlight, to them. “Because it’s a sickness.” Cara explains, letting the wryness seep out in the words. _Sickness_ , her fine behind. She’ll wear the dull amber, because that’s what it _means_ , but that doesn’t mean she agrees with the root reasoning. “Disease. What’s blue for you guys?” she asks, thinking back to the matching light cobalt the duchess and her friend had been sporting. It was a pretty shade, she can admit. 

He’s quiet again for a moment, but his hands don’t stop; she hasn’t offended him, then. “Not everyone uses them with the same meanings, but… for some, it’s reliability.” Cara can’t help the laughter that bursts from her until she’s slapping her own leg hard enough to feel the sting through her pants and up through her pinky. “ _What_?” “That’s— kriff, that’s _perfect_. About the nicest thing I think I could say about them.” she wheezes, not even caring how the motion must be making it impossible for him to work. “ _Reliable_. That works.” They’d fought damn well and all, she can respect that, but the _face_ the younger one had given her when she wouldn’t look at his head, bordering on restrained laughter… Cara’s comfortable being just petty enough to hold that against both of them ‘til the stars burn out.

“They helped.” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s putting his heart into it. “They wanted the sword.” Cara rebuts, blunt. _She’d_ want to save the Rhindon blade if she found out some Imperial was carrying it as a trophy, of course, would raise hell until it was back in the princess’ hands or Cara was dead… but not moreso than for a _kid_. Kryze had barely torn her eyes away from the saber the entire way back to _Slave I_. She doesn’t trust that kind of focus. “Here’s hoping it does her good.” Cara drawls with a raise of her arm in a empty-handed toast; he scoffs, sounding very much like Fett for a second. “It won’t. …I don’t think I’m doing this right.” “You aren’t.” she agrees without looking, and he yanks on a lock just hard enough to make her hiss. “Do you want this to work or not? Help.”

Cara catches the end of her own rolling eyes when she checks the reflection again. “Wow.” she tells him, because _wow_. It’s… not much like a monarch’s braids. It’s not much like a braid at all. “Give me instructions this time, then.” Din says, dry; she barely bites down her instinctual joke. “You need to split it into three parts first, not two.” Cara starts, laying his gloves down in her lap and raising her hands to demonstrate in front of herself. From this angle she can’t even fully see where his helmet’s facing, but she can again feel the weight of his tight focus on her fingers. And if her reflection is smiling in the propped-up hand mirror, well. He doesn’t say anything about it.


End file.
